House Plant.

My orchid is dying. She doesn’t get enough light on the shelf, but the window sill is too cold. The cats would eat her if left her unsupervised.

She came to me looking well; fresh from the florist in the storefront suite of theFranklinCenter; rooted in old, musty moss contained in a glass bowl with no drainage.

No drainage.

After about a week, she wilted. Her once magnificently blinding, white blossoms sagging and falling away. Gracefully, of course.

Google gave me a slew of diagnosis. I took her from my marble desk on the 20th floor of theFranklinCenter to my home to investigate. After bumping along on the train and accosting other passengers on the bus, we arrived.

I cleared off the wheel-able kitchen island Zan’s mother bought us and prepared for surgery.

I laid her on her side and delicately picked what was left of the roots out of the moss.

The roots were damp, and warm and smelled like the way Rainforest Café smells because of all that stagnant water.

I cut the rot away, and put her in a new pot (with drainage) and rooted her in a specialty Orchid Mix from the Home Depot.

The prognosis seemed promising for awhile. She looked content, unfazed.

But today.

Today she is turning yellow and shedding her leaves. Her once blindingly magnificent structure is too much to keep up with.

She will strip away until there is nothing left.

My suicidal orchid.

Sometimes, downtown makes me feel this way too. I only realize this once I am home. Repotted. Set up high on a shelf of safety.